


The Darkness Between Celestial Bodies

by AdorabloodthirstyKitty



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 02:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20056453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdorabloodthirstyKitty/pseuds/AdorabloodthirstyKitty
Summary: Pale brows, still hands and dim hair,I had a beautiful friendAnd dreamed that the old despairWould end in love in the end"The Lover Mourns For The Loss of Love" William Butler Yeats





	The Darkness Between Celestial Bodies

A lone figure sits hunched at a table in a dark bar in London, shoulders bowed as though in prayer. No prayers leave Crowley's lips as he stares unseeing in bright amber, swirling his drink idly. He's trying desperately not to think of anything at all, to clear his mind and wait for the death of this beautiful, complicated world he's grown to love over the last few millennia.

He notes the ash still clinging to his hands, stray bits of burnt paper still falling from his hair, his shoulders, and onto the wood tabletop. His throat constricts, and he empties the glass again in two quick gulps, wishing for the alcohol to pull him into blissful, easy unconsciousness.

He thinks about Keats. He thinks about Wilde, a scowl crossing his face before smoothing over again. He thinks about Leonardo, about Casanova, about so many words in so many languages, histories and ideas and the feeling of knowing someone by what they write, what they leave behind for you to find. He thinks about all those well-loved books, meticulously cared for and loved by someone made entirely of everything perfect and good. He thinks about Aziraphale, and he wishes he could cry.

And of course, once he starts to think of Aziraphale, he can't stop. Can't stop the memories of the years and decades and centuries and millennia that they have shared. Can't stop thinking of everything they'd said, and everything he wishes so desperately that he had said. Never in all those years had he ever thought that one day, he would be completely without his dearest friend. That he would be too late to save him.

He swallows past the lump rising in his throat, his glass refilling with a thought before he tips it back and swallows it down, the burn reminding him of fire, of heat and smoke and ash and a loss so profound that he doesn't want to survive it. He's tired of the burn, the heat, the smoke. He's tired of clawing his way out of the rubble. He's tired, and he wants to go home. But his home is gone now. His home was with his friend, and he feels cast out all over again. Dropped from a very tall height, plummeting and falling endlessly with nothing and no one to catch him.

Crowley thinks he's hallucinating the next time he looks up to find a translucent, ghostly image of Aziraphale sitting across from him, blinking as if to clear his vision. But there Aziraphale sits, as much as an incorporeal image of an ethereal being can sit in this plane of existence. The black hole that had made it's residence in Crowley's chest seems to stitch itself closed, and Crowley is at a loss for words.

He's surprised by his own voice when he mentions losing his best friend, the wetness of his eyes and the heat in his cheeks, around the sockets. But more than anything he hopes, prays that this isn't in his imagination. That Aziraphale will come back to him, that he can finally tell him all those things that he's been holding at the back of his throat when he sees him again.


End file.
